


Mistakes Like This

by Goddessofpredators



Series: A Super-Soldier and a wanted vigilante walk into a bar [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Bucky Is Trying, Canon-Typical Violence, Frank is exasperated but also trying, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, meet ugly, somehow they make it work eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddessofpredators/pseuds/Goddessofpredators
Summary: Their gazes lock again, and that same shiver washes itself over the Soldier’s body. There’s something in this guys eyes, something in the way he’s watching him- observing- that makes gooseflesh pimple over the Soldier’s skin. He’s almost scared to think about what that might mean.They stare for a beat more before the guy licks his lips and nods, moving his eyes away and towards the door.“Sorry for the mess,” he rasps, sends one last piercing glance the Soldier’s way, and then he’s gone.Or; weeks after the Battle of the Potomac, the Winter Soldier is laying low in New York. A late night shopping trip ends up with him getting a little more than he bargained for.





	Mistakes Like This

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo, after watching the Punisher s2 I... may have fallen down another rabbit hole. But listen, these guys go SO good together. So good. Well, when they're getting along that is. I have grand plans for these two, so expect much more of them down the line.

Had you asked him even a few hours before how he’d thought his night was going to go, the last thing he would’ve guessed was like this.

In hindsight, it’s hard to see why; trouble follows him like a certain stench, and sooner or later something was bound to turn up that would throw the entirety of what small scraps of a life he’d built up straight out of orbit. What he _hadn’t_ expected, however, was that it’d be all because of one man.

 

****

 

The bodega had been empty when he’d first walked in. A good thing- less people meant less of a risk, and right now all the Soldier really wanted was a quick, hot meal to shove in his mouth and then a long rest without wasting all his shopping energy looking over his shoulder.

He shuffles his way down the canned goods aisle, running his fingers over cans of soups and stews and shifting them around to check the list of ingredients. He glances between two cans- vegetable and chicken noodle- then checks the price tags and scoops up both in one hand, tossing them into his basket with the three bottles of Gatorade he’d grabbed earlier.

He turns to head to the cashier, then stops, steals a glance towards the candy aisle. Maybe… maybe one little indulgence wouldn’t hurt. He’s been through a hell of a lot, one might even say he deserves it. And damn if that package of Reese's Cups aren’t calling his name. He bites at the inside of his cheek, and makes his way over.

He’s in the process of thumbing at a Hershey bar when the bodega door flies open, letting in a gust of frigid winter air and a group of three masked men that come scrambling in toward the cash register with their guns raised.

“Hey!” one of them calls, motioning his gun at the cashier who jumps out of the chair they were sitting in with wide eyes and a pale face. “Put your hands up! Right fuckin’ now!”

The cashier shakily does as they’re told, stammering ‘please’s and ‘don’t hurt me’s and a few more words in a language other than English that the Soldier isn’t surprised he understands.

“Shut up,” the first goon says, then bangs the side of his gun against the counter and snarls, “Shut up!” when the cashier starts to whimper.

The Soldier watches it all with a detached sort of awareness, wonders if he can slip out the back without detection when one of the other men turns his way, aiming his gun right at the center of the Soldier’s skull. His grip is shakey- whatever shot he’d try to make would go clean past the Soldier’s left ear, but the guy still yells, “Put your hands up!” like he’s got something to prove even when he’s a hair's breadth away from pissing his pants.

The Soldier stares at him, and the guy points the gun a little harder.

“I said, put your goddamn hands _up_!”

His finger slides a little on the trigger, and the Soldier finally gives in and slowly raises his hands up to either side of his head. The goon swallows, sharp, and glances at the Soldier’s eyes before quickly glancing away. The Soldier sighs. He really wanted that damn candy bar.

The lead prick of the clusterfuck starts instructing the cashier on what to do- tells him to grab a bag and start emptying the register- and the Soldier watches them, all three, and begins to pick out the most glaring of their weaknesses to exploit first. He almost doesn’t see the other guy outside the windows when he walks up, but the second the bell over the door rings all heads swivel around to get a look.

“Hey!” the guy yells, slamming open the door hard enough to make the glass rattle. The Soldier’s a little surprised by the gruffness in his voice, but it’s fitting for him. Guy has a face like a man you’d cross the street to avoid; rough and grizzled, made of hard lines that still hold an undeniable beauty you can’t help but notice. Even the Soldier can admit that to himself.

“What the hell is going on in here?!”

“None a’ your goddamn business, man!” One of the goons, the closest to the door, shouts back, and turns a gun on the guy. “You better turn back the way you came, ‘less you wan’ a bullet to the head.”

The newcomer stares the goon down with a look that’d make even the Soldier pause for a moment, then flicks his eyes around the store, surveying. Calculating.

The leader’s already started back up the pressure on the cashier, and the Soldier looks back at the new guy to find him staring right back in his direction. They lock eyes for a moment, and that split second sends electric shivers down the Soldier’s spine.

Glancing back at the goon before him, the guy squares his jaw, muscles jumping, and there’s a tense second of silence save for the shuffle of dollar bills before he strikes.

He goes for the gun, grabs the goons arm and gets the aim off of himself before snapping the guys wrist like a twig and clocking him on the side the head with the Glock he just snatched. The Soldier takes the distraction while the man in front of him has his head turned and slams his shopping basket into the side of the guys skull. The guy yelps in pain, the Soldier’s grocery’s scatter, and the goon at the counter hears the commotion and spins around.

The Soldier is already moving, takes the guy’s outstretched arm and bends until he feels the break, then strikes him in the solar plexus with the metal hand. Gun in hand and goon wheezing, the Soldier turns his attention back to the prick he’d whacked upside the head, who’s currently fumbling with his own piece and trying to get it aimed enough to pull the trigger.

The Soldier lifts his weapon, sight dead on the poor bastards skull, then pauses. He glances back at the frightened cashier, then at the newcomer, who’s currently dodging a swipe from a knife. Two civilian witnesses is already too many, though he gets the feeling the newcomer wouldn’t mind much, and so the Soldier adjusts his aim and sends the bullet through the guys knee cap instead.

The guy cries a high pitched, keening scream and drops to one knee, and the Soldier means to make a move on him when he hears the telltale sound of a knife being pulled and ducks to the side, narrowly avoiding a blade to the neck from behind. He bares his teeth, frustrated, and slams his foot into the side of the lead goons knee, elbowing him in the head with the flesh arm as he falls. He spins around and grabs the knife from the guys hand, tosses it to the side as the second guy tries to stand. It embeds itself into the man’s shoulder and he goes down again long enough for the Soldier to finally land a solid punch with the metal hand to the first goons face.

The guy crumples like a sack of potatoes, out cold with a broken nose, and just as the second guy is starting to gain back the strength to try and make another go at getting back up the Soldier turns his way and delivers a spinning kick hard to the side of his head.

Two goons down, the Soldier huffs a breath and looks up as he hears a yell- a loud, growling, primal thing- and watches the newcomer rush the last goon full force at the counter. The man’s back slams against the edge and he moans, but the newcomer doesn’t let up; he grabs the side of the guys face in one hand and smashes it against the counter edge. The cashier gasps, and the guy does it again.

And again.

And again.

God above, this guy is _brutal_.

And very obviously trained, the Soldier thinks with a slight sinking feeling in his gut, watching the man move. This isn’t just some back alley brawler.

Eventually, the man releases his hold on the goon and lets his body drop to the floor in a heap. He stands there for a moment, breathing heavily with his hands covered in blood, before he looks up at the cashier.

“Call the police,” he mumbles, then glances the Soldier’s way.

Their gazes lock again, and that same shiver washes itself over the Soldier’s body. There’s something in this guys eyes, something in the way he’s watching him- observing- that makes gooseflesh pimple over the Soldier’s skin. He’s almost scared to think about what that might mean.

They stare for a beat more before the guy licks his lips and nods, moving his eyes away and towards the door.

“Sorry for the mess,” he rasps, sends one last piercing glance the Soldier’s way, and then he’s gone.

The Soldier stands there, paused.

He runs his eyes over the scene, watches the cashier blubbering desperately into their phone, and follows after him.

 

****

 

His apartment isn’t hard to get into, which sets off an alarm in the back of the Soldier’s mind.

_Something isn’t right here_ , it blares as he slips through the window.

It’s dark, but the light spilling in through the windows and his enhanced vision mean he can see more than well enough. The whole space is sparsely filled; one mattress on the floor, a couch and a little TV on a stack of wooden crates. The stuff on the tables is what intrigues him the most.

Guns.

Lots of them.

More ammo than he can count, grenades and knives spilling out of bags and several old radios stacked up Jenga style on top of each other on one corner. Not just any old radio’s either; there’s an NYPD communications rig set up on a table all to itself. The Soldier runs his fingers feather light over the edge of it.

Not something you can just up and grab when the moods hits.

_Who the hell is this guy?_

The Soldier dances his fingertips over a few of the knobs, brows furrowed, when the sound of approaching footsteps throws him off of his train of thought.

Quickly, he scrambles towards the door and flattens his back up against the wall as it opens. In walks the man, tugging off his coat to throw in the direction of the couch and completely unaware of the warm body hidden right behind the door as he kicks it closed with his heel. The Soldier watches him for a heartbeat, then moves.

He’s quick and light on his feet, reaches an arm out with the intent to grab the guy in a headlock when at the last second the man turns, gun unholstered from where he’d kept it hidden on his hip and turning to point right at the space between the Soldier’s eyes. The Soldier ducks, darts a hand out to get the gun off of him and uses his free hand to wrench the man’s arm up. The man grimaces and grunts, struggling, and sends a shot through the ceiling. The Soldier inwardly winces. The last the he needs is any more damn attention.

Teeth bared, the guy kicks a foot out and connects it with the Soldier’s knee, making it buckle and sending him kneeling to the floor with a strangled gasp. Even still, the Soldier’s keeps his wrist in a tight hold, grappling to limit the guys control on the gun as he fights to get it out of his grasp.

The guy is determined, he’ll give him that.

A headbutt to the gut makes the guy let up a little with a wheeze, and it’s enough for the Soldier to stumble back to his feet and finally slam the gun right out of the guys hand, sending it skittering across the floor and out of reach. He releases his grip on the man’s wrist just in time to block a punch aimed at the side of his head from the guy’s other arm. The second swing, he’s not so lucky. It hits him hard underneath the side of his ribs, knocking the wind out of him long enough that the guy growls, deep and throaty like an animal, and charges right at him.

He gets the Soldier in a hold around the middle and rushes him back like he did with the goon at the store until the Soldier rams back first into the wall. The Soldier yelps, but he’s still fast enough to bring his arms up to his face when the guy throws that fist of his right at the Soldier’s temple.

He’s grunting and snarling as he does it, again and again, trying to find an opening. It’s like nothing the Soldier’s ever seen before, expect maybe in his own self- this feral, vicious rage, blow after blow after blow with only one intent. Kill. He’d be impressed, if he weren’t currently trying to keep the bastard from taking his head off.

When he rears back, just for that split second to catch his breath, the Soldier lifts a leg and thrusts it into the man’s chest hard enough to send him flying back across the room and into the opposite wall. He hits it and crumples to the floor, and the Soldier allows himself a beat to get himself together before he rushes over.

It’s a surprise, almost, when the Soldier approaches to see him reaching up to paw at the wall, panting and shaking his head as he tries to stand.

The Soldier furrows his brows, mouth open, but when the guy wrinkles up his nose and growls, lunging, he moves and lands a hard punch to his cheek. The man goes down again with a grunt, grasping at the wall. The Soldier looms over him, watches him gasp for breath. He gives it a few seconds.

The guy starts breathing harder, tries to get his adrenaline going to get up again, and now the Soldier can well and truly say he’s taken aback. This man has taken a beating that most men would’ve tapped out of ages ago, and he’s _still_ somehow finding a way to shake it off as best he can and get back to his feet for another round. The Soldier look him up and down; maybe- maybe they enhanced him, too. It’d make sense. Send an enhanced to capture another enhanced. And this guy sure puts up a hell of a fight.

Speaking of, the guy cries out again, breaking the Soldier from his train of thought- and as admittedly impressed as he might be, he’s also just about had it. When the man comes running once more the Soldier moves out of the way of any oncoming blows and kicks the guy’s leg out from under him. He yelps, goes down on one knee, and the Soldier grips the side of his face in one palm.

It’s a split second moment, but they lock eyes, and the overwhelming defiance and fury- and yet, an undertone of something so shattered and broken- swimming in the man’s eyes when he looks up almost stops the Soldier in his tracks before he brushes it off and slams the guy’s head into the wall, hard enough to knock him out cold.

 

****

 

It takes almost forty minutes, time that the Soldier spends checking over the rest of the apartment in the dim glow from the streetlights outside, but eventually the guy does wake.

He’s still at first, so much so that the Soldier probably wouldn’t have even realized he was up if not for his heightened senses. And then he shakes his head, groggy, and grunts a soft little noise. A little shifting gives way to jerking and struggling by the time he realizes he’s tied up tight to a chair- three thick cables wound ‘round and ‘round his arms and torso until there was no hope of him getting free. The Soldier couldn’t help but be cautious.

He yanks at his bonds one more time and gives up a sigh, shaking his head self-depreciating at the floor with a half whispered, “Goddamnit.”

A beat, and he looks up, clocks the Soldier sitting on the corner of one of the tables a few feet away with eyes boring holes into his skull. He licks his bloody lips, glances around.

“So, what the hell is this, huh?” is what he says when he finally gets to talking. “Tyin’ me up in my own goddamn apartment. You supposed to be some kind of superhero or somethin’? One of those vigilantes? Think you’re doing the city a service takin’ me out, is that it?”

The Soldier watches him. The knife in his grip bounces along with each little jerk of his wrist.

“Why are you following me,” he asks.

The man makes a face. “What?”

Undeterred, the Soldier carries on.

“How many others are there,” he continues. “Are they in this building? Or did you just go rogue and hope you’d get lucky.”

Now the man looks well and truly confused, and it makes something in the Soldier’s brain tick.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the guy asks.

The Soldier breathes in deep, unblinking, and pushes it back out through his nose in a harsh rush of air. Committed to his part. Alright then.

“You can cut the goddamn act,” the Soldier says. Light reflects off of his blade and onto his cheek, bouncing in rhythm with the knife. “You’re tied to a chair at my mercy, no amount of begging or playing dumb is going to keep me from getting what I want out of you. And what I want to know is why you were following me.”

It makes the guy scoff, give a minute shake of his head.

“Listen, buddy,” he says, condescending, “I think you might have a screw or two loose underneath that mangy head of hair of yours, because I have no idea who the hell you are. I was never following you. I walked into that bodega to grab a sandwich and a beer, and after that little scuffle we got into I walked right back out and straight back here. If anything, I’d say you’re the one following me. And _I’d_ like to know the reason for _that_.”

That catches the Soldier off guard, and he tenses, the knife in hand going still.

“... The way you looked at me. In the store. You were… watching me. Observing.” It sounds stupider, admittedly, when he says it aloud, but he can’t go back on it now. Ever since he escaped it’s been life or death- no one glance is meaningless if it’s aimed at him.

The guy though- he’s still running with his little play, feigning innocence.

“So you’re gonna break into my place and hold me hostage because I, what, looked at you a little funny?” He says, and there’s a humorless uptick to the corners of his mouth. It flares a fire in the Soldier, that mocking tone, Like this is just a game, toying with his life like it hadn’t already been batted around like a kitten’s ball of string for decades. It makes him stand, moving away from the table. Makes him grip the handle of his knife a little tighter.

“It was the way you did it!” the Soldier says with a hint of hysteria creeping up his throat. “That look in your eye, you-” he pauses to lick his lips, catch his bearings, “There was something there. It was focused. Intense. And the only people I’ve ever had give me a look like that are the same ones trying to hunt me down like a damn dog right now, so forgive me for being a little paranoid.”

The guy is shaking his head by the time the Soldier goes quiet, incredulous and exasperated.

“You were taking out two armed men faster than any one man should’ve been able to without breaking a sweat, how was I supposed to look at you?” he says like it explains everything. “Would you’ve preferred me all starry eyed?” He adds in that mocking tone again, like the Soldier is a fool, “I ain’t no little fuckin’ fanboy.”

The Soldier chooses to ignore the last of what the guy has to say and instead points an accusing knife at his face.

“That’s another thing! How coincidental is it that the _one_ shop I walk into in this entire goddamned city just so happens to be the same place a man with some of the best fighting skill I’ve seen since I got free just happens to show up at the same fuckin’ time to ‘help me out’, huh?”

The guys shrugs as best he can in his bonds, all nonchalant. “What can I say, I guess my time in the Marines really paid off in the long run.”

The Soldier almost laughs at that. Flat out laughs, for the first time since he crawled out of DC and made his way back to the city.

“Will you stop with the bullshit?!” He demands, voice rising along with his nerves. “Admit you’re Hydra! Just say it! Things’ll start going a lot smoother for the both of us if you just fucking own up!”

The man before him crinkles his brow, squints his eyes.

“Wha- Hydra?” he asks. “What the fuck is…” and then he pauses. A lightbulb moment when it hits him, and it makes him snort a laugh, a real one that gets his head lolling backwards. It makes the Soldier falter for a second too; something about it, the way the guy looks- despite their circumstance, it buzzes a feeling somewhere under the Soldier’s sternum and leaves him breathlessly confused. “Are you talking about that Nazi death cult from World War Two I learned about in fourth grade?” is what the man continues with, shaking the Soldier back out of his own head. “Is that what you’re going on about? Jesus Christ.”

Jesus Christ indeed. This guy is wearing the Soldier thin as a worn sheet. He shakes his head, partly in disbelief, and moves his cap to run a hand through his hair.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, kid,” the guy goes on. “I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about, but I’m not involved in whatever it is.”

The Soldier sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek, turns his eyes back on the man from where he’d looked away.

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? Just like that, and I let you go and pray to God when I walk out that door you don’t plant a tracker on me and call up a whole squad of your maggot friends to come bring me in.”

“Believe me or not, but at some point you know you’re going to have to let me out of this chair.”

The Soldier shakes his head.

“Not really.”

That makes the guy stop for a second, and the Soldier can see the rage behind his eyes as he breathes in to steady himself.

“Listen, kid-”

“No,” the Soldier cuts in on a hiss, sick and tired of the circles they keep going around in. “You listen. I didn’t come all this goddamn way, fight tooth and fucking nail to get back any little scrap, any little tiny _piece_ , of whatever is left of what I can call ‘myself’ just to let you and the rest of your _shitbag_ organization grind it all into the fucking dust. I’m not letting that happen again.”

By this point the guy is breathing heavy, in and out of his nose as he works to keep himself in check. He’s practically vibrating out of his skin as he says, “I told you, I’m not Hydra. I am not a threat to you if you give this up right now and walk away.”

“I’m not giving up shit,” The Soldier snarls, and the man explodes.

“I AM NOT HYDRA!” he roars.

“THEN FUCKING PROVE IT!” The Soldier roars back, spit flying.

The man makes a face, jerking against his bonds.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that? What’s the magic fucking word?! What’s the one goddamn thing that’ll drill it into your numb skull that I am not an agent for some ancient Nazi organization?!”

The Soldier looks at the man, really looks at him, and rips off his jacket. He throws it to the side, rolls his sleeve up without blinking an eye until the metal of his arm shines in the streetlight and says, “Who am I.”

The man looks at him, looks at his arm. He gets a look on his face, confusion and horror and intrigue and anger all swirling around like a storm. He looks, and something works behind his searching eyes, like there’s something there, before he comes up empty.

“I don’t know!” He yells. “Is that what you want to hear?! I don’t fucking know!”

The Soldier watches him, and slowly, his face drops. There’s something in his voice, his eyes…

The Soldier swallows.

“Who are you?” he asks, and this time, the sound of his words are a lot more timid.

The guy huffs, mumbles something under his breath so feather soft even the Soldier can’t make it out.

“Frank Castle,” is what he says when he speaks up. “United States Marine, Lieutenant. Served four tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. All checks out anywhere you look.” He gives the Soldier a look and raises his brow. “That good enough for you?”

The Soldier watches him with a vague gaze of horror as it registers, feels the color drain from his face and leave him pale.

“Shit,” he says, then again, eyes widening, “Shit. You’re-” he looks closer at the man- at Frank, apparently- and runs a tongue quickly over his dry lips, “You’re not Hydra.”

A snort. “Glad you finally caught on.”

The Soldier stares for a moment longer before he snaps out of it, shaking his head.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, I thought- Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding about the- the Marine thing. Here, hold on.”

And with that he scrambles Frank’s way, knife in hand, and slides it up under the cords. He saws them off one by one; by the time the last one is snapped Frank is pushing himself up out of the chair and to his feet, flexing his arms to get the blood flowing. He observes the marks on his biceps left by the cords and the Soldier, anxiously, observes him.

Christ above, how could he be so _stupid_. Breaking into this guy’s home, roping him up like a dog all over some over exaggerated gaze. And the Marines. God, that explains a lot.

He gnaws on his bottom lip, watches as Frank opens and closes his hands, when all of a sudden one of those hands is flying right at him and clocking him in the jaw hard enough to make him stumble back into the back of the couch. His hand darts up to his face, and he runs gentle fingers over the tender bruise already starting to form. When he glances his way, the Soldier swears there’s something like satisfaction glinting in Frank’s eyes. He sighs through his nose.

“I guess I deserved that.”

Frank scoffs and glances off to the side.

“Yeah,” He says, drawing it out. “That was me goin’ easy on you.”

It brings a thin, bitter little twist to the Soldier’s lips, and he nods.

“Guess we’re even now.”

Frank turns back his way and lingers on him for a beat before he nods himself, eyes cast back down towards the floor.

“Guess we are.”

It goes quiet then, for a moment. The two of them collecting themselves. The Soldier looks off and around at the room, but his eyes are always drawn back Frank’s way no matter how hard he tries to keep them from it. He bites a little harder on his lip, wearing it bloody.

The Soldier opens his mouth after a second, but he hesitates. It’s a tall order what he’s considering to ask, he knows. But he steps back, considers his current predicament and flits his eyes back around the apartment. It’s a tall order, but it also might be his only hope.

“That’s… good,” he eventually speaks up. Frank doesn't look his way, but he cocks an ear, lets him know he’s listening. “Especially since I could really use a place to squat right now, and it seems like you’ve got a pretty nice set up going on here…”

That gets Frank’s attention. He turns himself full body in the Soldier’s direction with a look on his face like the Soldier just grew an extra pair of eyes. Honestly, the Soldier wouldn’t have expected any less.

“You,” Frank says, incredulous, “Did not just ask if you could crash here with me. Not even two minutes after having me tied up in my own chair.”

“I know, I know,” the Soldier babbles, halfway to frantic as he takes a small step Frank’s way. “It’s shitty and I’m sorry, I really fucking am. But I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t urgent, I swear. The place I’m staying at now isn’t- it’s not really an option anymore, and you,” he turns his attention to the room at large and waves his hands, “You’re obviously fortifying this place with the biggest guns you can get, and you’ve got the skill to back it up, which is something I could really use right now. I’m sorry to spring this on you, but _please_.”

Frank watches him. Studies him from under a heavy brow and squinted eyes. The Soldier, meanwhile, looks anywhere but at him, wringing his hands like a scolded school child. Sooner than later, to the Soldier’s genuine surprise, Frank finally relents and looks away, hissing at himself under his breath. He brings a hand up and runs it over his face, through his buzzed hair.

“You’ve gotta at least tell me what’s so big and bad it’s got you on the run like this. If I’m letting you in then I need to know what else I might be inviting onto my doorstep.”

The Soldier nods, but he rolls his lips and hesitates. “It’s a, uh… it’s a long story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

The Soldier puffs a breath of air through his nose.

“I’m… valuable to them. Hydra. They made me do a lot of stuff for them to advance their cause, things I didn’t want to do but,” he scoffs, “It’s not like I really had a say in the matter. I got out from them- escaped- not too long ago, and they want me back. They’ll do anything to have me back. And if I get back into their hands again, it,” he pauses for a beat, tries to shake away the feeling of their chains digging into his skin, “It won’t be good. For anybody. Point is, I need a safe place to lay low so things won’t get ugly, and this is looking pretty secure to me with a whole arsenal to back it up. I can even make it like I’m not here if you want- sleep over in the corner on the floor. Anything if you’ll just… give me a space to stay in until I can come up with something better.”

Frank eyes him again and then sighs, shaking his head.

“Alright, fine,” he says, worn down to the blunt end. “You can stay here, but on one condition: you gotta help me deal with my own shit.”

That makes the Soldier pause for a moment. There’s too many things that could mean- too many ways that could go. But the Soldier looks at Frank, _really_ looks at him clearly without the fog of his own anxieties to cloud his vision, and what he sees isn’t a bad man. He doesn't know why or what it is, but there’s something in Frank’s eyes that makes him- not trust him, per se, but lean a little more on the side of the fence of letting him guard his back in a firefight. It could be a mistake, but the Soldier trusts his gut, and at the moment his gut has nothing but good things to say about Frank Castle.

So he swallows, and he nods, and he says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Frank’s quiet for a beat, surveying like he does, but eventually pipes back up with, “You got a name?”

The Soldier freezes, stammers.

“Uh…” He racks his brain, but doesn’t have to think far. He’s been toying with it since DC, twisting it around in his mind, tasting it on his tongue. It’s natural when it slips out of his mouth now.

“Bucky,” he says- it’s a puzzle piece sliding snug into its place. “My name is Bucky.”

Frank raises his eyebrows at it, but he accepts it and tips his head in acknowledgment.

“Okay, _Bucky_ ,” he says, then gestures loosely over Bucky’s shoulder. “You got the couch. Better rest up, we’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me and listen to me yell about these two goobers on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SummerrSoldier)


End file.
